


MT ver. 2.Cor

by Omnibard



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: 100 word challenge, Clones, F/M, Niflheim doing bad stuff, Short One Shot, more MTs, random ideas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 13:31:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13976145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omnibard/pseuds/Omnibard
Summary: Per ProwlingThunder:"100 words of clone Cor armyCor MTsyou can do it :3"





	MT ver. 2.Cor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ProwlingThunder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProwlingThunder/gifts).



Cor wakes up choking on blood.  His entire torso hurts with the effort of breathing—like he’d been drowning.  He wakes up on his side, wrapped up in a thermal sleeping bag and a parka, but otherwise completely nude, pressed against a human figure in the dim-almost-dark.

“Shh.” The figure recommends.  Cor obeys, only because he’s still struggling to breathe steadily and doesn’t seem to be in immediate danger.  That likely wouldn’t last; his last memories were of a mission in south Niflheim…  Then he was here.

Here with everything hurting and stiff with weakness.  Starving and parched with thirst.  His eyes throb with the effort he makes to use them.  There are quiet, shifting noises in the room—brushes of metal, shuffling of cloth, and a metallic click-snick-click so soft, across the room.  Cor is fairly certain he is in a room with two other people, and one of them is reloading a pistol clip.

He tries to push himself up, but his torso cannot manage the processes of both breathing and forcing uprightness at the same time, and his arms are limp rags attached to his shoulders.

“… Why can’t I move?” He tries several times to whisper, but there’s no moisture in his mouth, and it comes out dry and papery and crumbling.

“Because you haven’t in a year.”  He knows that whisper—has heard it in the dark so many times, in so many better situations, and even some just as bad—he knows that hand—cold and bloodless and trembling with fear, but still so precious—that presses against his face.  He knows that kiss to his temple.  He knows those tears that dash onto his cheek.

“Ariel.” He wants to ask, but she’s pressing a canteen to his lips—water, barely warmed with her body heat and mixed with something tart—something for electrolyte replenishment, he was sure.  He sips, swallowing is torture, his throat is raw.

The other figure—the one with the gun (Ariel doesn’t use a gun, why would Ariel have a gun?  Why is Ariel even _here_?) shifts closer to the barricaded door.  Cor realizes it’s a door, and that it’s barricaded with tables and desks, and the idea crosses his thoughts that they are _indeed_ in very grave danger.

Ariel sets the canteen down and uses the same hand to grip the front of his parka to haul him upright to lean him more-or-less bonelessly against her side.  There is a strangeness to her familiar shape, and she has already picked up the canteen again before Cor realizes she’s missing her left arm at the shoulder.

He does not voice the thrashing, vicious things that come suddenly to his mind.  He knows she can hear them, and they are clearly in grave danger and he has to be quiet.

 _Tell me what I need to know._ He manages to focus as the canteen returns to his lips.  He attempts to lift his own arms, to command usefulness where it doesn’t come naturally any more.

He feels her inhale, and exhale. _They took you.  A year ago.  They took you and… they made more of you.  Not perfect copies… but almost as good.  They’ve turned them into… more MTs.  We—Prompto and I came to get you and… we only just discovered what they were doing.  But when we took you out… of the tank… they activated.  There’s twenty of them in this facility… and they’re looking for us._

He can hear the horror in her mind-voice.  Discovering that he had been subjected to the living hell she’d been rescued from—she and Prompto—could only have shredded through her soul, baring every raw spot and rubbing it with salt.  For the moment, Cor couldn’t feel any personal horror at what he’d been subjected to.  In this moment, he bled for what Ariel and Prompto had gone through to get this far.

There was a huge impact on the other side of the door.  The other figure—Prompto, apparently—continued quietly loading his weapons.  _Click-snick-click-snick._

Another impact, the desks shifted slightly.  The gravity of what Ariel had told him finally settled over Cor: _they’d made more like him._   Did natural talent with a blade—with killing—pass through genetics?  Was it _possible_ to make more _like him_ this way—in only a year?  Whether yes or no… something had happened to cause Ariel to lose an arm…

Twenty, she’d said.

 _Leave me._ He commanded.  She chuckled, once, a harsh gasp of laughter with none of the mirth.

_I’m here with Prompto.  We didn’t come here to observe or even rescue you—we didn’t know you were **here** until I heard you!  We came to bring the house down.  Even if that means bringing it down on **us.**   These things can’t be allowed outside, Cor._

One of Cor’s hands was balled in a loose fist.  He was glad.  He could do _something_ with one hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Got questions? Want to talk about it? [Here's your mic! ](https://mtraki.tumblr.com/ask)


End file.
